Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/152

 Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes! With prickles sharper than his darts bemock His little Godship, making him perforce Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.


 * This is my hour of triumph! I can now

With my own fancies play the merry fool, And laugh away worse folly, being free. Here will I seat myself, beside this old, Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine Cloaths as with net-work: here will couch my limbs, Close by this river, in this silent shade, As safe and sacred from the step of man As an invisible world—unheard, unseen, And listening only to the pebbly That murmurs with a dead, yet bell-like sound Tinkling, or bees, that in the neighbouring trunk Make honey-hoards. This breeze, that visits me, Was never Love's accomplice, never rais'd The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek; Ne'er play'd the wanton—never half disclosed The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth, Errata